Your Friends and Neighbors
by The Treacle Tart
Summary: Harry, Ron, and Hermione move into their new home. Someone is watching them very closely. COMPLETE H-R-Hr.


**Title: Your Friends and Neighbors**

**Author**: The Treacle Tart

**Pairing: **R/H/Hr

**Rating**: R

**Disclaimer:** Don't own, only borrowing. 

**Summary:** Harry, Ron, and Hermione move into their new home. Someone is watching them very closely.

**Author's note:** Written for the triofqf challenge: Neighbours find out about The Trio and make life difficult for them. Many, many thanks to elucreh and madmaudlin for all their help and spot-on suggestions. Any remaining errors belong to me.

Title taken from a 1998 Neil LaBute film.

**Your Friends and Neighbors**

****

It was a particularly sunny summer day and Ms. Clara F. Moody stood silently by her window, a long red fingernail running down the fabric of a faded curtain as she watched her new neighbors unpack a cargo van full of boxes and furniture.

She ran her tongue across her smooth, straight teeth, placed a well-manicured hand on her hip, and wondered if they really thought they could just waltz into any neighborhood without the residents finding out who they were. _What_ they were. 

Clara observed them for the better part of the morning. She wasn't as interested in watching box after box enter the house as she was in the subtle interaction between the three. The tall red one would bump his hip into the small frizzy girl and make her stumble—and then laugh as she reprimanded him. The short dark one would walk over to tall red and whisper something in his ear. Tall red would smile and lightheartedly punch short dark's shoulder. Once small frizzy was bent over examining a box and tall red crept up behind, giving her a sharp slap on the rump. She jumped up screaming and chased him around the front yard. Short dark stopped her by grabbing her waist and twirling her in a circle, while big red giggled until tears came out of his eyes. All very innocent. All very playful. 

Clara twisted Mother's pearls tightly around her index finger.

* * *

There was a right way to go about these things. Procedures to follow. Protocol to consider. One didn't just inform someone that they didn't belong in an area; nasty lawsuits happened that way. No, one must make people understand that they just didn't fit in. One must make them understand that certain kinds of people were better off living with those like them.

Clara didn't make the rules. It was the way things worked. 

Step one was always the same. Make contact and get on the inside.

* * *

Hermione was startled by the ring of the door bell, so much so that she gasped out loud. Hearing her, Ron and Harry came into the foyer from the kitchen, where they were taking a break. 

"Bit jumpy there, love," Ron teased.

"Well, I wasn't expecting anyone. Were you?"

"You know how these things work Hermione; it's the same wherever we go. Some neighbor is probably just coming over to say hello." Harry offered a smile he as passed her on his way to answer the door.

Sure enough, on the step stood a smiling neighbor, holding a plateful of cookies that seemed as warm as her smile. She was about Harry's height, with dark auburn hair neatly swept behind her ears. Her hazel eyes were bright and her smile wide. "Welcome to Stillington. I'm Clara F. Moody," she said with a small nod. 

Harry stiffened a bit when he heard her name. "Did you say Moody?"

"I did."

"Any relation to an Alastor Moody?" he asked.

She furrowed her brow and thought for a moment. "No…I don't think so. I have a cousin named Alfred who lives in Stokesley."

Harry just shook his head and smiled. "No. I'm sorry. It's probably just a common name."

"No trouble. I live next door and saw you moving in. I thought I'd come over and say hello. You're probably tired from moving, and I don't want to intrude, but I thought you might like a bit of a snack." She indicated the plate in her hands. "And I have yet to meet someone who doesn't like homemade cookies." 

"Are those chocolate chip?" Ron was practically salivating.

Her smile broadened. "They are." 

"Well, please come in, Clara," he said cordially. "I'm Ron, this is Harry, and this is Hermione." 

Harry and Hermione smiled at each other as Ron made introductions. Nothing got you in Ron's good graces faster than food, especially cookies.

Clara handed the plate to Ron, who had a cookie in his mouth before he so much as offered one to anyone else. She gave a small laugh and looked about, taking in the sight of all the boxes piled high around her. "My, you have a lot of boxes. I forget how awful it must be to move into a new place."

"It isn't so bad," said Ron through a mouthful of cookie crumbs.

"Can I help you with anything?" she asked.

"No," said Harry a bit quickly. "I think we're done for the day. Anyway, we're exhausted."

"Well, if you need anything please feel free to come over. I'm right next door. You can keep the plate until the cookies are gone. No hurry in returning it."

"Thank you," he said. "Really."

"No problem. Welcome to the neighborhood." She turned and walked out the door.

"She seems nice," Ron said, chocolate smeared on the ends of his mouth.

Harry remained quiet and just looked out the window as their new neighbor walked across the lawn and into her house.

"For Heaven's sake, Ron," Hermione said in exasperation. "Can't you take human bites?"

"I can, just watch." And he promptly grabbed Hermione and bit her neck leaving a bit of chocolate behind. His tongue darted out to lick it clean and her protests quickly became moans.

"Ron, you know I can't concentrate when you do that."

"That's the point, isn't it?" He placed the plate of cookies on a nearby box and hoisted Hermione up so that her only option was to wrap her legs around his waist. "Let's take a real break," he said as he buried his nose in her hair.

"Where?" she asked giggling.

"Our bedroom."

"Is the bed set up?"

"It was the first thing I did. I do have my priorities intact." He turned to Harry. "Come on Harry. You look tense—let's work on that." He flashed a smile.

Harry took in the sight before him: Hermione perched on Ron's hips, his hands around her backside holding her in place. The smile on her face as she leaned into Ron's chest, and the smile on Ron's face as with a tilt of his chin, he beckoned Harry to join in. Both smiles promised a decidedly wonderful manner to spend the afternoon, and the only proper way to settle themselves into their new home.

"Think you can keep up?" Harry said flashing his own wicked smile.

Ron gave a barking laugh. "I'm not the one who falls asleep right after, mate. We need to work on your endurance." 

"Oh, do we now? Well, let's get started." They walked towards the stairs that led to their bedroom. Harry stopped at the foot of the staircase and turned to look at the abandoned plate of cookies. After a moment, he shook his head and ran up after Ron and Hermione.

* * *

Harry woke up the next morning to a half empty bed. That wasn't unusual—Hermione always got up at some ungodly hour to do Hermione things. Harry had stopped questioning her a few months after they decided to live together. There were concessions to be made in the sort of relationship that they had. Hermione did her thing—she read everything she could get her hands on, she continued to write articles to be published in dozens of wizarding journals, she organized their lives. Ron did his thing—he kept up with his family, letting them know where the trio was moving and what they were up to; he kept Harry abreast of every Quidditch score in every league in every country; he made sure no one interfered with their lives. And Harry did his thing—he protected Hermione and Ron.

It had all begun three years ago.

Harry had watched from the sidelines as Ron and Hermione discovered each other. It was difficult at first. Though he had always known that their relationship would eventually lead them there, when it had actually happened, Harry found himself ill prepared. He had watched their love and need for each other grow from tentative glances and secretive smiles to tight embraces and explosive kisses. At one point it seemed as though they could hardly be in the same room without some part of their anatomy touching. At first, Harry had thought he was just feeling the separation and isolation that comes when one becomes the third wheel in a relationship. He quickly realized what he was feeling was jealousy. What he didn't know was whom he was jealous of.

One night, after a particularly nasty nightmare that had left his throat raw from screaming, he found himself huddled in Ron's arms, soothing words being whispered in his ears and a gentle kiss being pressed to his forehead. He didn't know what had come over him, but he needed his best friend then, he needed Ron more than he had ever needed anything in his life. His nails had clawed mercilessly into Ron's shoulders as he crushed his lips to his friend's. It was only afterwards—after they had made love at a frantic pitch—that he had realized what he'd done. He had no idea what it meant, but he had known it couldn't be good. He had avoided Ron and Hermione for three days, hiding away in the Room of Requirement where his only requirement was not to be found.

Ron had finally cornered him after Potions.

_"Why are you avoiding me?"_

_"It's easier this way."_

_"Easier for who?"_

_  
"For you and Hermione."_

_"No. Not for us. We are fine."_

_"Does she know?"_

_"Of course."_

_"And she isn't furious."_

_"Not for the reason you think."_

It had been much later, after a rather long conversation, that it all had come out it in the open. How they felt about each other— truly felt about each other. How nothing felt right if it didn't include them all, because their lives consisted of depending on and needing each other. How friendship had turned into a profound understanding, and eventually into love. How the world couldn't understand what they shared because they didn't see the bond between three people whose lives were intertwined so completely that they shared one mind, one heart.

Hermione had been mad all right, but because she had wanted to be there, too.

Their first night together was awkward; everyone so afraid of leaving anyone else out. Everyone trying to make sure the others understood how special they were, how important. It took months until they found their rhythm, until they found out what the others liked and how they liked it. It was well over a year before they got it right.

Ron liked to watch Harry and Hermione first before he joined in. Harry liked to be in between. Hermione liked to hold Harry's hand and guide him. Ron only bottomed if he and Harry were alone. Hermione like to watch sometimes and not join in. Harry sometimes didn't want to participate at all. They understood each others' moods: when one needed to be coaxed and when one needed room to be alone; when one wanted to participate, watch, or be somewhere else. And it was okay, because they still loved each other and wanted each other and understood each other enough to know the difference.

They kept their relationship secret. The world had taken everything else from them; it had no right to their private lives. After the war, when humanity was safe, the three left everything behind, except those who truly mattered, and went off to find their place in the world.

There were rumors, of course. Someone always tried to get pictures or information. Something always happened and they would have to pull up stakes and move to some new Muggle town. And they would continue to do so until they found where they belonged.

So it came to pass, on this new morning, the first in their new home, that Harry found himself looking out his window, staring at his new neighbor drinking coffee and reading the paper on her deck. She seemed nice enough, but something about her made the hair on the back of Harry's neck stand on end. He would keep his eyes on the charming Clara.

He turned his attention to the redhead fast asleep on their bed. Ron would be out for hours still. He was an enthusiastic lover, who never rested until he was sure both his partners were sated, so last night had been a long one. 

Ron lay on his stomach, the corner of the bed sheet just covering his backside, one arm hanging off the bed. Ron was always balancing on the edge of the mattress, no matter how big they made it. Harry walked over to him and gently traced his index finger down Ron's spine, relishing the curve of the muscular back. Ron moaned in his sleep.

It was his thing—Harry's thing—to protect the ones he loved.

He turned to look out the window once more, before he left the room.

* * *

There's an art to these things—colors and textures and lines, symmetry and balance.

Logic.

One must understand the problem before one knows how to deal with that problem with clean efficiency and effectiveness.

Know thy enemy.

Short frizzy—_Hermione_—always gets up first. She bustles about the house picking up clothes and stacking her books. She begins by reading two or three papers with some coffee. She then goes to a small room, seemingly designated as her office, and sits behind a stack of papers and a mountain of books where she disappears for the morning.

At least an hour later short dark—_Harry_—comes down. He walks outside and gathers the post. He always takes a walk around the house, inspecting shrubs and kicking over rocks. After his inspection of the grounds he shuffles into the kitchen and starts breakfast.

The smell of food usually wakes up tall red—_Ron_. The smell of bacon frying is enough to make him stir. He gives a long drawn out stretch and slips in to a pair of boxers—he always sleeps naked—and lumbers down the steps, stopping at Hermione's office to drag her to eat something. They always eat breakfast together. Hermione butters Harry's toast. Ron puts far too much sugar in his coffee. Harry never finishes his plate. Hermione chatters away. Ron replies between chews. Harry sits in silence and smiles.

The morning is always the same; the day progresses from there.

Today is a bright sunny one, and Harry is in the yard pulling weeds and trying to tame the neglected garden. Hermione is on the deck, wearing a wide brimmed hat and eating an apple. She is sitting in the lounge chair and is skimming through a book on her lap. Ron is getting them all a drink.

They go about their days always aware of the others. Ron brings Harry a drink, though he never asked for one. He gently places a hand on Harry's arm, trying to coax him out of the sunlight burning his neck and shoulders red and into the cool shade on the deck with Hermione. He refuses and Ron takes it on himself to see to it that his friend doesn't faint from exposure to the heat of day, and douses him with a cold jet of water from the garden hose. A playful struggle ensues, leaving them both dripping wet. Ron quickly strips off his shirt, exposing broad shoulders, a muscled chest, a slender waist, and pale skin to the burning rays of the sun. His cutoffs, heavy with water, hang low on his hips. Harry leaves his shirt on and the sodden material clings tightly to his lithe frame.

From her spot on the deck, Hermione watches and pauses to lick her lips. She calls out mockingly, teasing her boys about their immaturity. It isn't long before she, too, is soaking wet. Within minutes, three bodies are entangled, wet limbs sliding through each other on the back deck on a hot afternoon. Peals of laughter give way to groans, giggles to growls. In the end it's Harry that convinces them that they would be better off in their home rather than in the relative privacy of the garden.

There are ways around high fences, of course. But there are ways around walls and doors, as well.

Clara wasn't new at this.

* * *

It was easy to forget there was another world outside his door.

Easy when he's lying in bed, sandwiched between two people he loved more than anyone one else in the world. Between soft curves and hard lines. Between gentle swipes of a warm tongue and the stinging bite of sharp incisors. Between long fingernails and calloused fingertips. Harry loved the feeling of being so close to them that he could feel Hermione's hot breath on his skin and hear the beating of Ron's heart, loved being surrounded by their arms and lips.

It was easy to forget the rest of the world when he was buried deep inside Hermione with Ron buried deep inside him and all three of them following a slow, synchronized rhythm. When the only sound was Hermione's hitched gasps, Ron's possessive growls, or his own choked sobs. 

Harry concentrated on the feel of bare skin rubbing against him, of hands clawing his thighs and a mouth swallowing him whole.

It was easy to forget the rest of the world until the rest of the world decided to remind you it existed.

It began with the feathers.

* * *

Harry sat at the kitchen table staring at a small pile of feathers.

"Whatcha got there, Harry?" asked Ron.

"Feathers," he said.

"Kinky. Feathers can be fun," Ron said with a smile.

Harry didn't seem to get the joke. How would he explain? he wondered. How would he explain that the bird that these feathers had come from wasn't indigenous to this part of the country, let alone this town? How would he explain that he had found them in a neat pile on the front step, like some sort of message? How would he explain that they smelled like old magic?

"Owl feathers," he said.

And somehow Ron understood.

* * *

"It doesn't necessarily mean anything." Hermione tried to sound convincing, but even she had a hard time believing that this was just a coincidence.

"How can you say that?" Ron snapped. "They were _left_ for us, sitting on our doorstep."

"We checked carefully, Ron," she insisted. "There isn't a wizard within a hundred miles. No one knows us here. All they see is three young people trying to fix up an old house. We haven't even talked to anyone other than Clara. We've barely left the house for anything other than groceries."

"So, what, we pretend that we didn't find a mound of owl feathers? That some poor bird happened to stop for a second and ended up molting on our porch?"

"No. We don't jump to conclusions and assume that this is a bad thing. Maybe there is a wizard nearby and he's letting us know we aren't alone. Maybe it's a greeting."

"Maybe it's a warning."

"Maybe," Harry began. "Maybe we just need to wait and see." Ron and Hermione turned to him in surprise, as if they had forgotten he was in the room. 

"Why do you think they were left, Harry?"

He didn't answer, and Ron and Hermione knew better than to press.

After a week without any further incident, things appeared to go back to normal. The tension that had enveloped the house dissipated, and soon the three of them were like before. Hermione read her papers and wrote her articles. Ron promised his mother that they were eating properly and would visit soon. Harry worked in the garden and kept watch.

* * *

Harry could hear the shower running and the sounds of two people who were probably not getting very clean. He smiled as he thought them. Hermione had woken up first and started to bathe—a process that took no less than twenty-seven minutes. Ron had gotten up to use the bathroom, the only thing that would get him out of bed so early in the morning other than food or Harry's mouth. Ron heard the shower and decided that Hermione's bathroom was suddenly more convenient than the one he shared with Harry. Hermione protested her morning ritual being interrupted for a full five minutes before she let Ron in.

Harry could picture them—Hermione pressed up against the tiled wall and Ron moving slowly inside her, streams of water cascading down their joined bodies. Hermione was probably biting her lower lip, and Ron was most likely whispering into her ear. He did like to talk.

His own body was starting to react and the thought of joining them briefly crossed his mind. Then he remembered the last time the three of them had tried to share a shower and he ended up nearly cracking his head when he fell against the tub. It might sound sexy, but unfortunately the reality didn't always live up to the fantasy. He would wait. Both his lovers would be very accommodating, they always were.

Instead, he decided to start breakfast, as both of them would be ravenous. After sex, Hermione could eat more than Ron. He went to the front door to get the post and was surprised to find a bouquet of flowers on the step, its base wrapped in newspaper. Harry stepped out onto the porch and had a look around. There wasn't a sign of a single person on the street. It almost looked like a ghost town.

He brought the flowers inside and set them on his table. Michaelmas daisies. Aunt Petunia had loved those damn flowers. Filled the house with them. Harry carefully unwrapped it, half expecting something to fly out. Nothing did. It was just a plain bouquet of daisies. He went to retrieve a vase and discard the newspaper they had come wrapped in when he noticed it. The newspaper wasn't just any paper, but a page from the Daily Prophet…and not just any page…it was the paper from the day Harry had finally defeated Voldemort.

Harry blinked rapidly as he stared at the page, a picture of himself, dirty and exhausted, staring back. He gathered the flowers and the paper and threw them in the trash. He quickly took the bag out of the house to the bin in the back. By the time Ron and Hermione joined him in the kitchen, there was no sign that there had ever been any flowers in the house.

* * *

The panic should be starting to set in right now. The uneasiness that comes with knowing things aren't as they should be. The questions would be starting: Who is sending these messages? Are they friendly? What do these things mean? Are we in danger?

There is hesitation every time a door is opened, every time a foot steps outside their sanctuary. There is disquiet every time the house creaks or a bird chirps. There is paranoia when he can't keep his eyes on both of them. There is tension in words and movements. 

There is fear… and it's beautiful.

* * *

Harry had begun getting up before Hermione, and though both she and Ron knew something was wrong, they didn't ask. Sometimes Harry needed his space. Sometimes he needed to do things his way. They accepted that because they knew he was only doing what he thought was best for them. Harry needed to protect them because he had been doing it since he was eleven.

He had spent a lifetime fighting one thing or another, and it was a hard habit to break. Living in a time of peace was proving to be quite a challenge for Harry Potter. Something always seemed to happen that drove them away from whatever place they had decided to call home. Leaks to the press about their location, anonymous phone calls, letters, and once an envelope full of intimate pictures. Someone was always interfering.

In the past, however, Harry had just been annoyed, angered at the public's desire to know about their lives and some individual's need to supply the information. Exasperated by the lack of privacy and the lack of respect for three people who had given so much. 

Weeks had passed again without another incident, without any sign that something was wrong or that they should be concerned. Perhaps Hermione was right. Perhaps someone was just trying to tell them that they weren't alone. Perhaps someone was just trying to tell them that they knew and understood.

The sun was bright this morning, and Harry gave a long full stretch as he headed downstairs. The garden needs some work, he thought, the weeds have overrun the place. He was considering buying some weed killer at the local garden shop when something caught his eye, a glimmer of something metal sitting atop the kitchen table. 

A prefect's badge.

Harry picked it up and nearly crushed it in his hand. He then ran through the house, checking every room, every closet, every corner. Nothing. No sign that anyone had been in the house at all. He stormed into the kitchen where he slammed the badge on the table, his eyes locked on it. Minutes later Ron and Hermione entered the room.

"Something wrong, Harry?" Hermione asked.

"Nothing," he answered automatically.

They others followed his eyes to see what had caught his attention.

"Hey," Ron yelled. "My prefect badge."

"What?" said Harry in surprise.

"My prefect badge. Where did you find it? I thought I lost that thing years ago."

"Are you sure it's yours?"

"Of course I am. See this dent? I got it my during my first Quidditch game."

"You wore it during your first Quidditch game?"

"Thought it would make me more intimidating. Hey, I was terrified. I needed all the help I could get. Where'd you find it, Harry?"

Harry's eyes went from Ron to Hermione to the badge. "It…it just turned up."

* * *

If things went as planned—and they usually did—then tonight would be the night.

Clara came home late that night and flicked on her light to find Harry Potter standing in her living room, his wand drawn. "Who are you?" he demanded.

She smiled softly as she removed her coat. "Aren't we past rudimentary introductions?"

"I won't ask again," he said coldly.

She sighed. "I am not anyone of consequence. I am not someone you need to be concerned with. As a matter of fact, I would say that out of everyone in this neighborhood, I am the least of your worries."

"It was you leaving those little messages for us." There was nothing of a question in his statement.

"Yes."

"Why?"

She shrugged. "Just a friendly warning."

"Against what?"

Clara steeled her hazel eyes. "You don't belong here," she stated. "Your _kind_ isn't welcomed here and it's only a matter of time before someone in this neighborhood acts on it."

"What do you mean _my kind_?" he demanded.

She stiffened. "Don't you know what you are?'

"What? A wizard?"

She rolled her eyes. "Haven't you realized by now that you aren't the only wizard in this town?"

"What, then? Is it that Ron, Hermione and I are in a relationship? Is love between three people too much for this pretentious town to fathom?"

"You really are dense, aren't you?" she asked with a smirk. "This place is full of sexual deviants. Half the town is sleeping with their neighbors. Do you really think your ridiculous home-life means anything to them?"

His wand still was drawn and his thumb slowly rubbing the handle.

"You have no idea who your neighbors are, do you?" She stopped to laugh a low cruel laugh. "Let's take a walk, Mr. Potter, you and I. Let's take a little stroll though our neighborhood."

"We aren't going anywhere. Tell me what you have to tell me here and now."

"Oh, fine," she sighed. "Can we at least go upstairs?"

"Why?"

"Humor me."

After a moment he conceded and flicked his wand, indicating that she would lead the way. She turned to walk up the stairs, adjusting her clothes and running her palm over her hair to smooth it out. She led him to a large bay window overlooking the area.

"You see the house down the street with the large willow? That belongs to Alodie and Madeleine Rookwood. The house down the street from them with the brown shutters? Charles and Edith Travers. The house with the fenced-in yard and the dog that barks all night belongs to Afton and Brigitte Greerson. She was Brigitte Mulciber before she married. Emil Dolohov teaches at the local school. William Nott was the local chemist. Any of those names mean anything to you?"

Harry was pale. "Death Eaters," he whispered

"Correction," she sneered. "Families of Death Eaters. Family members of people you either imprisoned or killed."

"You're lying."

"Think about it. Where else could these people go? They were forced here by a wizarding world that considered them criminals by association. _Filth_. Force to live together and create their own community, because it was the only place they could feel accepted and not be ostracized. They left behind a world where they were not welcome and came here, cutting themselves off and disappearing into the ether. Untraceable, undetectable, unnoticeable and safe. Now, how do you think they felt when you moved in, not just a reminder of the world they left behind, but Harry 'the Savior' Potter? That the one primarily responsible for their exile decided to take up residence among them? Take my word for it," she leaned in, "they aren't pleased."

"Why haven't they acted already?"

"First they needed to make sure you weren't here to spy on them. They aren't a very trusting bunch. Once they've established that you are also in hiding, it won't be long. They may not be Death Eaters, but they were surrounded by them their entire lives—they picked up a thing or two."

Harry continued to stare out the window. "Why are you warning me?"

She smiled sweetly. "Just being a good neighbor." 

* * *

The sun had set hours before the last of the boxes was loaded onto a cargo van and three people jumped in the front seats and rode away into the night. Clara stood watching, arms crossing her mid-section and a small smirk on her face.

With one last look at the waning moon, she turned and sat at the small table overlooking her garden, a cup of earl grey with just a touch of cream waiting for her. The gardener needs to look at her roses, they don't seem as pink as last year's and that just wouldn't do. She would call him tomorrow afternoon as she had promised to make raspberries tarts for the school's fundraiser and that would take all morning. 

She grasped her grandfather's favorite fountain pen and neatly made notes in her weekly planner. Town social on Saturday. Church council meeting on Sunday. She must see Lavinia about her new dress—Tuesday perhaps. Mustn't forget to invite the good doctor over for lunch next week either, she thought with a sigh. 

Clara paused to sip her tea. She looked out her window, at the adjacent garden. Shame they had to leave, he did have a way with the flower beds. Her lips pursed as she made a quick note to herself to call the realtor in London who sold the house next door. He really needed to be a bit more discerning about who he brought here. Good neighbors are so hard to find, after all.

_Finis_


End file.
